Therese Park: Repairs require a journey to the dark side

A few evenings ago, I discovered that our oven failed to cook a chicken for us. By looking inside, I felt the broiler burning hot but not the baking element at the bottom. At dinner, I reported to my husband the domestic crises I had handled alone and explained why we were eating the leftover lentil soup instead of a roasted chicken and baked potato.

“The oven must go,” he said heartlessly. “It’s as old as this house that’s built more than 40 years ago.”

“But the broiler still works!” I said in the oven’s defense. “Why throw away something that works. Will you throw me out when a part of me doesn’t work?”

He chuckled. “I can’t think that far ahead because you’re still kicking like a horse. But consider this: Repairing the old thing might cost more than replacing it with a new one in the long run.”

I felt sorry for the “old thing.” When “old” workers retire after long years of service, they get recognition from their employers, either a certificate of appreciation or a gift. But this oven that had served humans more than 40 years will end up in a junk yard and be sold for next to nothing. And part of it still works!

I negotiated. “Let me investigate on how much it’d cost to replace the baking element, before we spend money on a new one.”

“Fine,” my husband said. “I’m flexible, as you know.”

I jotted down the name of the make and the model number and drove to a nearby appliance store. The owner glanced at the paper I showed and said, “I don’t have it in stock, but I can order it for you! It’s $24, not including the tax.”

Before I said okay, I asked him how difficult it would be for an average person to replace the part.

“It’s easy,” he said. “The part comes with the screws and instructions. All you need is a screwdriver.”

I ordered it. Six days later, I went back to the store, paid for the part and thanked the owner.

“Make sure you turn the power off from the circuit box in the basement before you begin,” the owner advised.

I assured him that I had done it before and I could do it again. Returning, I read the instruction carefully and launched the repair mission. All went well: I walked into the utility room that shared its space with the furnace and water heater and some junk, and finding the circuit box on the wall opposite side of the furnace, I killed the power by flipping the lever at the top of the box.

A job well done! But I didn’t feel the joy I had anticipated, because I found myself in thick, solid darkness. A helpless feeling came over me. I had forgotten that this end of the basement had no window and all sounds from outside were blocked, too. Why didn’t I bring a flashlight? But the better question was, “Why didn’t the store owner tell me that I should take a flashlight with me?”

I told myself to stay calm and go back out the way I had come in.

But it wasn’t easy. Turning around in pitch darkness I was afraid of losing balance and falling. Earlier, the ceiling light had guided me to this corner, but now surrounded by intense darkness, I felt lost. In my rough calculation, the distance from where I stood and the opening to the main area, where a shaft of light would descend from the kitchen windows above, was about 12 feet, but it seemed very far away.

With a quick prayer, I launched my own rescue mission by moving slowly, my hands on the concrete wall, like a blind person. If I could reach the furnace, the opening is only a few feet away on my right.

Something rolled on the concrete floor, startling me. It seemed like I had just kicked an empty glass bottle. What was a glass bottle doing here?

Five seconds later, I bumped into a metal shelf, and by moving away from it, I felt a wooden post with nails sticking out. Never mind that the nail poked my finger; there’s no time for self pity here! Something round and huge, whose surface was scruffy, blocked my way. My hands told me that it was the old carpet from our family room that was replaced six months earlier.

My husband had wanted to put it out for the bulk item pickup day, but I saved it, just in case. It seems silly now, saving a piece of old carpet that’s blocking my way now!

Brrrrrrrrm! The furnace kicked off on my left, telling me exactly where I was. By turning around and walking a few steps further, I walked out of the utility room.

In no time, I replaced the baking element, ran back downstairs, this time, with a flashlight, and turned the light back on.

My “old” oven has been faithfully cooking for us ever since.

This story was originally published June 9, 2015 at 4:10 PM with the headline "Therese Park: Repairs require a journey to the dark side."